Deftly he tucked in the coverlets upon the opposite side, and buttoned up the heavy coat. But when he reached for the muffling folds about the sick man’s head, all the sureness seemed to leave his fingers; Scanlon was astonished to see him bungle the matter most disgracefully; instead of accomplishing what he set out to do, he succeeded in knocking the covering off altogether.
“Pardon me,” he said, smoothly enough.
The invalid returned some commonplace answer; and the doctor set about repairing the result of the volunteer’s awkwardness.
“Your intentions are the best in the world,” smiled he, “but I can see that you have spent very little of your time about sick beds.”
Then he opened the door, and beckoned the Indian. The chair rolled out upon the porch, and a moment later could be heard crunching along the gravel walk.
Ashton-Kirk smoked his black cigar with much silent deliberation, and sipped at the strong coffee. Several times during the next half hour Scanlon attempted to bring him out of this state by remarks as to the inn and its population. But he received replies of the most discouraging nature, and so gave it up. When the cigar was done, the crime specialist arose and stretched his arms wide in a yawn.
“I think I’m for bed,” said he.
Scanlon looked his astonishment, but said nothing. His imagination had pictured some hours of looking about among the darkened hills—just how and what for he had little idea; and this announcement suddenly bringing the night to a close was not in the least what he had expected.
“All right,” was his reply. “That’ll do for me, too.”
Rooms were assigned them, and each was provided with a candle in a copper candlestick; and so they went off up the wide staircase. From the adjoining room, Bat Scanlon heard the sound of pacing feet for some time; after a little they stopped, but for all that he had no assurance that the special detective had gone to bed. So he stepped out and knocked at his door.